Whenever it Rains
by Once Upon a Faerytale
Summary: It slips by him, and he loses himself to it. John Watson was never made for domesticity.


_"There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won't remember and that she can't even let herself think about because that's when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle._

 _You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken._

 _Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again._

 _Whenever it rains you will think of her."_ Neil Gaiman

* * *

Overhead, the sky is, if not a bright summery blue, at least clear of any impending rainstorms. The slightly overcast day fits John Watson's mood perfectly; not particularly happy, or sad, or angry, but just being. The pains in his leg and shoulder twang in harmony as he walks. His cane raps a sharp counterpoint to the soft patter of his footfalls. A slight brightening in the patch of sky directly above him is all that can be glimpsed of the midday sun.

His therapist, Ella, had suggested he get out, find something more to blog about than bland, empty walls and poor-quality bedsheets. The day has yet to deliver anything of interest to him, though, and he is on his last circuit of the park before he hails a cab back to his bedsit. The concrete path he follows winds gently around the edge of the field, the occasional tree imparting its hesitant shade.

John limps past the silent siren call of a wooden-railed bench, but can't ignore the audible call issued from the man already seated on it.

"John? John Watson?" John turns to survey the man, vague recognition sparking in his mind. A familiar face and girth from his time at St. Bartholomew's. Mike Stamford.

"It's Mike Stamford," the man says as John walks over to him, "We went to Bart's together, yeah?" John gives a short nod and they shake hands, Mike shifting over to make room for John.

"How have you been, Mike?"

"Not half bad. I'm teaching at Bart's now. Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them. I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

John feels his lips twist up into a rueful smile. "I got shot." Mike's eyes flick immediately down to the cane leaning negligently against the bench seat, and he clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Sorry to hear it." Not as sorry as I am, John thinks. Mike's pitying stare and descent into awkward silence tear the last of John's energy from him.

"Well, it was good to see you again, Mike. Maybe we could catch up properly sometime."

"Yeah, course. Any time you want to visit, just come 'round to Bart's, and welcome." John represses a grimace at the thought of entering that familiar healing facility, knowing that everything there was cut off from him now. The heady antiseptic smells and invigorating cleanness and pale, soothing colours will all be anything but. All he will see is _gone, gone, gone_. He doesn't say any of this, but he thinks it very loudly.

John Watson shakes the hand of Mike Stamford, stands up, carefully takes his cane in hand, and continues on his way, unknowing.

What is left behind, swirling catalyst of infinite possibilities, stutters and shudders and cannot hold onto what no longer would be. It implodes silently, invisibly, intangibly and, for the most part, completely unnoticed.

John takes a dozen steps forward before he feels a breeze curl along his back, the tips of his hair shifting the barest amount in the unnaturally warm air. Another step and the relief-resentment at leaving Mike for his dreary used-toy shelf is eclipsed by strobe-light sensations.

John feels his heart pound, adrenaline rushing though his system, and feels the insane urge to laugh, wild and breathless like he hasn't wanted to since before the injury. His footsteps still. The flash of shadow-light-shadow striping his body as he pounds across London pavements. Contentment and exasperation wound together, overlaid by the soothing tones of an expertly played violin. Wonder like the first time he had seen the vastness of the Afghanistan landscape, sweeping majesty greater than anything he could hope to offer. A second's gleam of iridescent eyes, shifting colours set off by inky black curls.

The air stills once more.

John shudders from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, as if he could physically shake off the images that had thrown themselves against his person. With an extra shake of his head, he starts forward, wondering why his eyes prick with unshed tears.

He pays the cabbie more than he can really afford to and trudges upstairs, his leg paining him more than it ever has. He types up a blog post about how he met Mike Stamford today. He re-reads it, head cocked to the side like he's listening to the words being read aloud. He drags the mouse over, hits "discard" and leans back, watching his left hand tremble against the keyboard. John stands up, stretching his arms against the fresh scar of his shoulder, relishing the burn. He stares in disgust at his cane, deliberately leaves it as he hobbles to the kitchen. He sets the kettle on to boil, pulling out the teacups and teabags while he waits. He lets his mind slide out of focus, only coming back to himself to terminate the insistent whistling and prepare his cuppa. Tea is more dependable than guns, more dependable than bandages. More dependable than sunrise in the east.

John shuffles over to the rickety wooden table, slumps into the hard-seated chair and ignores the way its rails dig into his spine. He sips he tea idly, half his concentration on the newspaper in front of him and the other half chasing circles around the mysterious feelings of earlier that day. The news is much of the same as it always is, everything either sensationalised or trivialised, and never giving enough importance to the important things.

John finishes his tea, stares at the few drops too stubborn to leave the bottom of the cup. He stands up laboriously and walks back over to the sink, running the teacup under the tap and placing it aside. His hand reaches out for a second cup he's never used, fingers clenching, white-knuckled, hovering over the bench. The only sound in the small room is John's sharp exhale, and it reverberates unnaturally loud.

John returns to his laptop to type up a blog entry, scowling at the cane as his leg knocks into it while sitting down. He brings up the site and types up an entry about how much he misses being a surgeon. He reads this one, mouthing the words. He deletes it. He types up an entry about being able to see busy, bustling city streets without worrying about being shot at. He hums in consideration and scoffs at his poor-quality metaphors. He deletes it. He finally makes a short post about fresh air and how the cold makes his shoulder ache, with an added jab towards Ella for her suggestions. He hits "post" and wonders what he will do now.

John spends the rest of the day drinking copious amounts of tea in an attempt to capture that fading camaraderie, a contentment he has never in his life felt. He spends the night reading a singularly boring paperback, but eventually succumbs to sleep and sand and the singing of bullets grazing past _his_ people, already wounded. He roars defiance, returns fire, and the bullet his gun expels shatters two panes of glass to lodge itself in the body of a deceptively ordinary-looking cabbie.

John wakes up with a start and the fading memory of a name on his tongue. He is conscious for only a moment, though, and when morning finally does come, he has no recollection of his dream.

He goes out that day, scouring bookstores for something to occupy himself, picking up Dan Brown and Steig Larson and Agatha Christie. He does not care about the figures the cashiers ring up, handing over whatever cards or money as necessary. He goes straight back home and begins reading, thrilling at the mysteries, reading so intently he can almost, almost imagine himself as one of the protagonists in the stories. For a few moments, anyway. He fends off an afternoon call from Harry, and is forced to cede defeat when his eyes begin to burn and his neck feels like it will never straighten again.

The next morning, he gets out of bed, looks over himself and the bedsit and the excess of literature, and decided he needs to get a job. He drinks his morning cup of tea, a second cup set out, unpoured, unplanned. He slips on his favourite jumper, warm, cream-coloured wool.

Ella had found a request for locum work at a local clinic for him, and though it is a pale phantom of what he really wants, it is better than nothing. He gathers up everything he needs for a resume, and catches a taxi to the clinic, belly filling with pre-interview jitters. People brush past him as he gets out of the taxi and pays the driver, the street busy even this early in the day. He leans heavily on his cane as he enters, and the woman sitting at reception looks up at him.

"Hello. Can I help you?" She smiles, friendly but prepared to deal with difficult customers, and John feels the usual pang or sympathy for someone working so briefly with so many people, many rude and obnoxious. He smiles in return, a tired quirk of the lips.

"Yes. I heard you were looking to hire someone." She brightens immediately, straightening in her seat.

"Of course. I'll let Dr. Sawyer know." She rings up on the phone at her desk, and a minute later John is ushered into a small, cosy room, obviously not for public access. A blonde woman in a white coat turns around from a coffee machine, beaming at John.

"Sarah Sawyer. Nice to meet you." She and John shake hands.

"John Watson."

"I'm so glad someone applied. We're losing one of our doctors to a wife over in America, and we've been swamped with the usual winter ailments. You could probably know nothing more than how to use a stethoscope and a pen and we'd take you."

"Well I hope I'm a bit more qualified than that, at least." Sarah laughs lightly, and John grins in response.

"Shall we sit down for this?" They both seat themselves in low, cushioned chairs and John hands her his resume, which she flicks over, eyes scanning the pages. Sarah glances up at him when she finishes, and John hears the thrumming _hummm_ of something large and heavy flying through the air, the hiss of sand falling to the ground. Sarah blinks and asks if everything is okay, and John brushes off her concern wish a careless shrug.

They chat for perhaps half an hour, dipping into John's previous experience, lingering over his time as an army doctor, skimming past the injury that had him invalided back home and took his surgeon's hands. Finally, they fall silent, and Sarah looks down, arranging the papers on the desk.

"Thank you so much, again, for applying, Doctor. No promises, but as you're the only one who's applied in two weeks, your odds of acceptance are looking pretty good."

"Please, John's fine. It'll be good to get back into the work, even part-time." They shake hands once again and John takes his leave, damning his cane at every step he takes, puzzling over the sounds he heard earlier.

Unfortunately, by the time he gets back home, he is still no closer to understanding what he has been experiencing. The only thing he is sure of is that he longs for the knowledge, a longing that burns in his gut and heart and throat, worse than any bullet wound for the lack of a visible wound to tend to.

He falls asleep with the words of crime thrillers printed across his eyelids, and wonders why his world is slowly draining of colours.

John gets a call from Sarah the next day, accepting his job application, and thinks he should feel happier about that. He expects an acerbic complaint about the devastatingly boring maladies the common rabble deign come down with, and his ears ring with silence. He reads in the papers about a string of linked suicides-maybe-murders, and the hollow ache intensifies. He buries himself inside his novels until the words run together, then continues reading the smudges and stripes through lunchtime.

He finally stops when the light gets too dark to read by, and picks at a piece of jam toast and tea, current book still held in one hand. He nearly face-plants into the sticky meal, and puts the book away. He hobbles over to the nearest drawer, pulling it out and seeing his sig sitting in the drawer. He trades one item for the other, dis-assembling the sig, quick maintenance check, then re-assembles it. He lets it sit in his hand, feels the comforting weight of it.

Considers.

In the end, he places it back in the drawer, on top of the book.

That morning, he wakes with the smell of chlorine strong in his nose, burning his sinuses like he'd snorted pool-water. He spends much longer in the shower than he normally does, hearing a manic voice spin though a rainbow of emotions and tones, his eyes flashing with red spots. Perhaps this is a sign he should see a doctor, but what can they diagnose that he can't?

He goes out for his morning coffee, just for the excuse of stretching his legs. The sky is cheery and clear, juxtaposes his dark mood. He snaps at the barista when she asks how many sugars he wants, and does not care how much of a grump he must seem to others. He is not the abrasive one, and he is. John feels his spine stiffen every time a phone goes off, eyes scanning the crowds for potential dangers. The relentless alert! signals his brain is sending wear at him, and he leaves the coffee shop, letting his feet take him where they will.

There are a few blocks between the café he chose and his home, and he uses them to observe the world around him, looking for something, anything to write about. He sees a nondescript car drive by, windows tinted nearly as dark as the painted body. He thinks of suits and umbrellas equally as dark, and finds he has difficulty getting enough air. Is it even air he breathes, or does he now live on these not-memories, these unwilling imaginings?

John stops, drawing to the side of the footpath, chest heaving and eyes wide in bewilderment. An older lady stops to ask him if he needs assistance, and all he can do is wave her off with a garbled, "M'fine."

He catches his breath and hurries home, mind already sunken into the few books he has left to read.

The following two weeks continue in the same manner, John feeling like the setup to a joke whose punchline is never coming. He feels uneven, like he should be listing to one side, a ship foundering in a gale. His cane has all the weight of a mountain, and each time he is called to the clinic, the pauses between clients reverberate with text alerts he never receives. Each night he gets home, dis- and re-assembles his gun, and the mechanism seems to flow more smoothly each time he does it. He has read each book at least three times, and he reads of a cab driver arrested for the suicide-murders, and wonders, and remembers an old movie called "The Princess Bride".

The weather slowly evolves from freezing rain to simply rain, and the bedsit feels wrong, like putting your left foot into your right shoe. John loses weight dramatically, and Harry calls more often that she did, and she sounds sober more often, too.

One day John is out walking and he sees a tall figure, dark cloak flapping behind him as he races after someone else, shouting, "Out of the way! Can't any of you stop gawking and stop that man?" He is across the street from John, and the sound of that posh voice, the sight of curling, swirling folds of black fabric is like a gunshot. All the breath leaves John's body, and he can't feel his fingers or toes. He stumbles, half falling, half sitting down with his back against sturdy brick wall. His ears ring as the world slews on its axis. Is there any blood left in his body? Does his heart still beat? It doesn't feel like it.

John's not sure how he gets home, but he stumbles in, each footstep missing the last drop on the stairs. For the first time since he got back, he collapses onto the edge of his bed and sobs.

John wakes up to a life in shades of gray. He is Tantalus reaching for the unreachable; nothing more than fading dreams and peripheral reveries.

* * *

Three weeks after seeing the man in the coat, John will colour his life with the golden-white flash of lit gunpowder and spatter of vitality-red blood. The neighbours will report a gunshot to the police, and the case will be pronounced an open-and-shut suicide. Detective Inspector Lestrade will have no reason to mention it to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
